


In Need of Punishment

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: getting fucked in lingerie [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Spanking, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a few moments, Grantaire doesn’t move. Out of sheer habit, after Enjolras hauls him into his room, he pins Enjolras by the shoulders against the wall. But he stops there, his eyes drinking in Enjolras’s body from head to toe. Enjolras holds his head high, tries valiantly not to blush at the boy’s staring. This is what he had wanted, after all: Grantaire, unable to tear his eyes away from him, taking in the sight of Enjolras’s firm chest and abdomen, on nearly obscene display in the accidentally form-fitting top, his visible erection beneath the plaid fabric of the pleated skirt, and those fucking pristine white socks that almost manage to make him look demure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Need of Punishment

Enjolras borrowed the outfit from Eponine. Meant to ask for it, but his cheeks burned at the thought, so he’d slipped into her room instead. Boys were strictly forbidden from girls’ rooms at St. Francis’ Sacred Heart Academy, but no one was around—seniors weren’t pestered about the rules the way that underclassmen were. In the end, he probably just should have asked her. Eponine caught him at it, anyway, coming back from dinner as he rifled through her closet, and he’d turned pale and started to stammer, helplessly. He was wracked with guilt as it was, because Enjolras cringed at the thought of stealing, even if he’d known she wouldn’t miss it and he fully intended on returning it at his earliest convenience.

“I just needed to borrow some clothes,” he muttered, staring down at the floor.

 

The expression on Eponine’s face flickered from confused to surprised to a fascinating combination of intense interest and utter revulsion. She stomped over, and pulled a blouse, tie, and skirt from her closet, and knee socks from her bottom dresser drawer.

After she’d heard about the confessional blowjob, Eponine had fully realized that Enjolras and his worst enemy-turned-fuck buddy were rather less than inclined toward vanilla sex, and had no trouble drawing the correct conclusion.

“Just keep them,” she said, handing the small pile of clothing to Enjolras. “Or burn them. Just don’t give them back to me.”

He nodded gratefully, mumbled “Thank you,” and knew that by next week he’d end up trying to avoid telling her all of the sordid details that she would probably demand. One blowjob in a confessional and suddenly one’s entire private life was up for discussion.

_Worth it_ , Grantaire had said, and smirked, when Enjolras complained about it the first time.  _I know you totally get off on flagrant rebellion against conservative and oppressive institutions. Well, that and having your cock halfway down my throat._

Enjolras clutched the uniform closer to his chest and hurried back to his own room across campus.

…..

It’s a Saturday, which means Combeferre is going to spend all day at the library. Enjolras would join his roommate, but lately Courfeyrac has been tagging along, too, and watching Courfeyrac peer over at whatever Combeferre is studying, his head resting on his shoulder, brushing the wisps of hair out of the other man’s eyes and occasionally even cleaning his glasses for him and trying to squeeze onto his lap—well, it’s more than enough to make Enjolras a little nauseous. He’s happy his friends are happy, but trying to do homework with them has become more than a little distracting.

But Combeferre being out for hours also means that Enjolras has the room they share all to himself, and while he tends to prefer his rushed and filthy encounters in semi-public places with Grantaire—it might not be the most practical to attempt such a liaison whilst in a skirt. Might only get him noticed and apprehended on the way there.

Seated at his desk and trying only half-heartedly to focus on the history book in front of him, Enjolras taps out a quick text message:

_Are you free?_

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes.

**R: Painting. What’s up?**

_I’ve been naughty._

Enjolras blushes and immediately regrets sending that message, really doubting that it’s accomplishing what he wants it to.

**R: What?**

_Combeferre is going to be out for a few hours._

**R: I’ll be over in a few.**

Enjolras shuts his textbook, digs in his closet for the schoolgirl uniform, and hurriedly shucks off his casual weekend-wear of jeans and a t-shirt. Almost as an afterthought, he pulls off his boxer shorts as well. The clothes go neatly in the hamper, because no matter how much he’s been wanting this kind of a fuck, Enjolras isn’t a  _slob_  about it. He pulls on the skirt, which slides easily over his slim hips and falls just above his knees. Next is the white blouse, nearly identical to the one that the boys wear, but Eponine’s is much smaller on his broader chest and shoulders. He has to give up on trying to do the topmost buttons. Eponine had given him a tie, too, and he hadn’t argued, much too anxious to run and hide from embarrassment to inform her that their uniform ties were actually completely identical. He leaves that relatively loose around his neck.

The socks are last—he pulls them up all the way, to just below his knees, and he’s sitting on his bed and realizes he’s already half-hard because  _Jesus Christ_ _the things Grantaire is going to do to him when he sees_ —

There’s a knock at the door, and Enjolras takes a deep breath before rising to his feet, resists the urge to palm himself through the skirt. He opens the bedroom door, just a crack, and only opens it a little wider when he sees Grantaire there. There are slight smudges of red and orange paint on his face, and his white t-shirt is covered in larger versions of those splotches. His usual green knit cap is pulled down over his black curls, although many of them have already escaped.

He raises his eyebrows, suggestively. “Going to let me in?” His tone is as infuriatingly caustic and snide as ever, and Enjolras wants very much to shut him up.

He grabs Grantaire by the collar of his paint-stained t-shirt, drags him into the room, and shuts and locks the door.

Then it’s just the two of them, alone in Enjolras’s room. And  _yes_ , Grantaire has shut up now, his red, wet mouth (that Enjolras is already very much acquainted with, thank you very much) completely agape.

For a few moments, Grantaire doesn’t move. Out of sheer habit, after Enjolras hauls him into his room, he pins Enjolras by the shoulders against the wall. But he stops there, his eyes drinking in Enjolras’s body from head to toe. Enjolras holds his head high, tries valiantly not to blush at the boy’s staring. This is what he had wanted, after all: Grantaire, unable to tear his eyes away from him, taking in the sight of Enjolras’s firm chest and abdomen, on nearly obscene display in the accidentally form-fitting top, his visible erection beneath the plaid fabric of the pleated skirt, and those fucking pristine white socks that almost manage to make him look demure.

“Fuck. _Christ_ , Enjolras, is this what you meant by you’ve been naughty?” Grantaire groans. They’re still barely touching and Grantaire is  _groaning_  for him.

(He’s tired of the other boy’s reverence for him during sex, how an argument turns into softness and tender movements, Grantaire bringing him to climax with no thought for his own pleasure. But Enjolras wants their fucking to be like the rest of their almost-friendship—harsh and grasping but satisfying all the same. A battle for dominance in a war of words, and despite Grantaire’s best efforts, Enjolras always wins, while Grantaire goes back to sulking or smirking in the corner. Now this is a battle for dominance that Enjolras is more than happy to freely allow Grantaire to win, and if the schoolgirl outfit isn’t enough to tell him that then—)

Enjolras arches up, wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck and presses their bodies close together. Grantaire is nearly trembling as Enjolras whispers in his ear:

“Yes, and I think I need to be punished.”

At that, Grantaire steps back, and Enjolras reluctantly releases him, and wonders if he’s already gone too far. But Grantaire looks as wracked with lust as Enjolras feels, eyes wide and licking his lips, but he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, as well.

“Shit. Are you sure about this? We’ve never—I—I mean— _yes, God_ ,—but, shouldn’t we have a safe word or something?” He’s definitely trembling now, and still can’t take his eyes off Enjolras’s stocking-clad legs. Grantaire is nervous, Enjolras realizes, and of course he is, afraid of hurting him or committing any similar wrongdoing. This is new for both of them, but Enjolras wants Grantaire to be as enthusiastic as he is.

“We can,” Enjolras allows, “if you want. But I know you won’t actually hurt me.” His lips curve into a smile, and he edges closer to Grantaire, closer to his bed. He takes Grantaire’s hands in his, slides them around his waist. Instinctively, Grantaire moves them to Enjolras’s ass and squeezes. Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the roughness of the artist’s hands even through the fabric of the skirt. “Now, my safe word?”

“ _King Louis_ ,” Grantaire says, automatically. “It doesn’t matter which. I know you despise them all. And I’ll know emphatically that I’m doing something wrong if you start shouting that.” He’s smirking again, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Enjolras’s lower back.

Enjolras is much less amused than Grantaire seems to be, but he nods his acquiescence.Anything to get back to the fucking, to get back getting fucked. “Now, about my punishment.”

Grantaire swallows—Enjolras tracks the movement of his throat with his eyes. “I assume you have something in mind?”

“It’s not up to me. I’m the one being punished, after all.” Enjolras can’t keep the exasperation from his tone—he’s tired of leading in all aspects of his life, wants someone else to take control, at least in this aspect of his life—and maybe in the end that’s what does it, because even when they aren’t having sex, there’s nothing that spurs Grantaire on like Enjolras’s exasperation. Something changes in Grantaire’s expression, his blue eyes sharpen with deviousness. He takes off his hat—it ends up on the floor somewhere—runs his fingers through his hair. He’s not touching Enjolras anymore, as he goes to sit on Enjolras’s bed, back far enough so that his feet are only just resting on the floor.. Enjolras feels awkward, standing in the middle of the room, and then—

“Come over here, young lady,” Grantaire purrs, and motions to his lap. Enjolras can see his erection straining against his jeans, and oh now he’s the one left speechless, from Grantaire’s words and the commanding tone of his voice. There’s a tinge of uncertainty there, as well, which Enjolras ignores.

And Enjolras obeys, makes to sit on Grantaire’s lap, but Grantaire’s firm hands around his waist stop him.

“I don’t think so. I doubt I can punish you properly like that.” The other boy’s hands guide him, then, not ungently, until Enjolras finds himself lying across Grantaire’s lap, with Grantaire’s cock digging into his hip. His own arousal is pressed against Grantaire’s thigh, and Enjolras struggles against the urge to start rutting upon him.

He feels exposed like this, his ass in the air with his arms folded helplessly in front of him, hands already gripping at the navy bedsheets. His knees are braced on the bed, on Grantaire’s other side, while the lower half of his torso rests in Grantaire’s lap. He hears Grantaire’s whistle of appreciation, feels his hand explore the contours of his body over his choice of outfit. Fingers trace along his knee-high socks, tickle at the backs of his knees, and move higher, stroking at the almost hairless backs of his thighs. His skirt is riding up in his position, only barely keeping his ass covered. Grantaire’s hand moves higher, then, and underneath the skirt. Enjolras cannot stop himself from shuddering—and even that slightest bit of movement gives his cock that delicious bit of friction against his skirt, against Grantaire’s leg.

“Ah, now I see why you’re in need of some punishment,” Grantaire says, his voice husky and low, and he pulls up Enjolras’s skirt so that he is exposed to him. “I think you’ve forgotten a vital part of your uniform today, young lady.”

“Underwear,” Enjolras breathes out, realizing what Grantaire had been getting at. He arches into Grantaire’s touch as calloused palms run over his smooth skin, and is more than a little satisfied that not wearing his boxer shorts—or, alternatively, borrowing something slightly frillier from Eponine, turned out to be such a good idea.

“Underwear,” Grantaire confirms. “It’s altogether too distracting for your fellow students. Do you like that sort of attention?”

Clearly he expects Enjolras to answer him, and Enjolras continues to play along. He knows what is coming, wants it more than anything (at least for right now—in another hour or two he’ll be back to craving justice and freedom), and he’s willing to play the game in order to get it.

“Yes,” Enjolras whispers.

“I thought so.” A finger teases, circles his entrance, and draws away. “You’ve been very bad.” His hand moves away for a moment, and Enjolras closes his eyes, braces himself—Grantaire’s hand comes down in a firm  _smack_ , and Enjolras’s loud moan pierces the near-silence of the room. His hips buck into the air, already searching for more, and while his ass stings his cock is throbbing with want.

“Did you like that?” Grantaire murmurs in his ear, and Enjolras knows this is Grantaire ascertaining that he is okay, that that was okay, while still staying in his role, forcing Enjolras to admit that he enjoys this.

“More,” he gasps.

“More what?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Please, spank me again,  _sir_.”

He’s rewarded by a moan of Grantaire’s own, at that, and by more than one slap this time, at least a dozen—until he is left panting and his bottom is throbbing as much as his cock is, and when Grantaire ceases spanking him, he can’t control himself now, rubbing himself against Grantaire’s jean-clad leg.

“Your ass looks so much prettier covered in my handprints,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras can hear how hard he’s breathing, too, and feels another surge of lust that he’s done that to him, writhing in his lap with every blow while silently pleading for more. In a softer voice— “Where’s your lube?”

“Nightstand.” And Enjolras quivers.

Grantaire can reach the nightstand without having to get up, thank God, because Enjolras has no intention of moving from his lap, he’s not even sure he can stand at this point. He tilts his head, watches Grantaire cover his fingers in the slick liquid, and Enjolras hears himself start to whimper. He shifts his knees under him, so that his ass is even more in the air now, making the angle better for what’s coming next.

Grantaire starts with one finger, which isn’t enough for Enjolras, not when he’s driven to this point, and follows it up with another. Enjolras feels himself begin to stretch around the very welcome intrusion, and his whimpering grows louder. He tries to buck his hips again, get them deeper, needing more—

“So  _tight_. Oh, you’re going to feel so good when I finally fuck you,” Grantaire hisses, curls his finger just so until Enjolras cries out. He can feel his erection leaking onto Grantaire’s jeans, and he bites down hard on his lower lip when the two fingers begin to scissor carefully inside of him.

“Do it,” Enjolras grunts. “Fuck me.”

“What’s that?” And Enjolras wants to scream at the amusement in Grantaire’s voice. He turns his head again, sees Grantaire watching him with that teasing smirk that he only pretends to loathe. His fingers inside of him pause. “Does the bad little girl want to be fucked?” His other hand comes down, this time in a gentler slap. “Stand up.” He withdraws his hands entirely, and Enjolras has to bite his lip again, to keep from whining at the feeling of emptiness.

He’s still not sure he’s up to standing, but Grantaire helps him to his feet, and wraps his arms around him. There’s a wet spot on his skirt, soaked in precome, and matching one from where he had been lying in Grantaire’s lap. For the first time that day, they kiss, and it’s tender for only a moment before Grantaire starts to explore Enjolras’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, probing familiar corners and the grooves on the roof of his mouth. When Grantaire pulls away, Enjolras can feel the other boy’s saliva, moistening his lips. He tastes like last night’s wine and this morning’s cigarettes.

“Bend over,” Grantaire orders him. “Over the bed.” He has the lube in hand again, and Enjolras obeys, bracing himself on his elbows. The skirt has fallen back down to cover his reddened ass, but Grantaire pulls it up again.

“So naughty,” Grantaire says, his voice wrecked with lust. Enjolras looks over his shoulder, watches Grantaire slide on a condom—those are always kept with the lube, of course, Enjolras is only practical—and stroke his cock from base to tip until it’s coated in shining lubrication. The boy is still almost fully clothed, only his jeans and boxer shorts tugged down around his knees. Enjolras is still in every piece of the uniform but feels almost more naked with it on than if he were actually free of all clothing.

One of Grantaire’s hands tangles in his hair, pulling hard, and Enjolras is forced to face the bedroom wall. His other hand grips hard at Enjolras’s hip, and Enjolras knows he’ll have Grantaire-shaped fingerprints there, in a few hours. With the tug at his hair his back arches like a bow, and Enjolras has to muffle his moaning into the mattress as Grantaire begins to enter him. The stretch of it burns only a little, and Enjolras pushes his hips backwards, to encourage Grantaire to fuck him truly.

His thrusting starts slow and gradually builds in speed, and Enjolras would touch his own cock if he didn’t need both arms to hold himself semi-upright. He feels so full and there’s a tug of delectable pain in his scalp with every movement.

“Fuck, Grantaire. Please—”

“ _Slut_ ,” Grantaire moans, and Enjolras might find it demeaning if it wasn’t what he wanted, for Grantaire to make him his little slut in need of punishment. When Grantaire says it again Enjolras cries out, because it makes his own pleasure better somehow, because—

Enjolras’s arms collapse underneath him and his chest and shoulders fall forward so that Grantaire is fucking him into the mattress. Hands free, he reaches for his own cock, begins to stroke at it hurriedly, with no finesse or rhythm, because fuck he’s only started and he’s going to come—

He does, then, with a groan of Grantaire’s name that was so close to becoming a scream of it, and he feels himself tighten around Grantaire’s cock inside of him, and in the end that’s what does it for Grantaire, too, who pushes in one last time and shudders with his orgasm. He falls forward onto Enjolras, and they’re both splayed awkwardly, each half-on and half-off of the bed.

Grantaire catches his breath first—it’s easier for him, without the weight of someone elsecrushing him, Enjolras considers—and he picks himself up and flops onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. His hair is a mess and his eyes are still wild, as he pulls of the condom and throws it down beside the bed. He opens his arms for Enjolras, who is still lying there, uncomfortable, watching him.

“Hey, come here, sexy,” Grantaire says, and it’s far from the commanding tone he was using before. Now he sounds drowsy, half-asleep.

Enjolras crawls up to lie beside him, but doesn’t fall right into his arms like Grantaire clearly wants.

“I really like these socks,” Grantaire says, and plucks idly at the fabric where it reaches Enjolras’s knee.

“I have homework to do,” Enjolras replies, and a yawn escapes his mouth before he can stop it.

“You aren’t doing homework after we just had the hottest sex of our lives, alright?” Grantaire rolls over, so that his head is resting on Enjolras’s shoulder. “Let’s just take a little nap together and enjoy being blissfully fucked out for once, yes?”

The idea is tempting, Enjolras has to admit, but takes a moment to look down at himself.

“Fine. But let me change into something else before Combeferre gets back?”


End file.
